


under the kotatsu

by prefacing



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: I can't write porn, I'm Sorry, M/M, or anything remotel sexy, or smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:44:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prefacing/pseuds/prefacing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>pointless wannabe porn.  under a kotatsu.  that's important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	under the kotatsu

**Author's Note:**

> 400 words of stupidity i wrote for a friend three years ago when she was feeling down. no i don't know what this is.

Sweat clings to the ends of silken blonde hair, dots the smooth surface of skin, rising and falling in rapid succession . His shirt lies pooled around him, unbuttoned by a set of deft fingers. –and at his neck are lips and teeth and tongue, kissing and licking and _biting_ and –

“ _Kyouya!_ ”

The shout breaks the silence of the tableau, and without being told, his back arches, coupling with his hoarse cry to form a barely coherent response to the hand that has dipped below the line of Tamaki’s belt to caress his cock. He watches those fingers daily, watches them curl around jet black pens, but not until now does he begin to imagine them curled around something else, something warmer, livelier. 

His fingers, buried deep in Kyouya’s dark hair, tighten and pull involuntarily, eliciting a quiet snarl from the mouth pressed again his neck. Another bite follows, and Tamaki doesn’t know if he wants to scowl at the pain drifting across him or plead for Kyouya never to stop. He wishes he could do something, anything, in return for his friend, his _lover_ , but his hands are occupied, one fisted tightly in Kyouya’s hair, and the other splayed against Kyouya’s bare chest, and his mouth is too busy forming small o’s of pleasure to be of much good else.

Instead, he simply arches his neck, his back, while his head presses against the wooden leg of the kotatsu, and he lets those deft fingers circle and stroke, playing his cock like a well-tuned instrument. 

The absence of heat at his neck causes Tamaki’s eyelids to flutter open, bright blue eyes taking in the sight of a face moving farther from his.

“Kyouya…?”

It is a question, one with no real answer. Tamaki looks into those dark, often inscrutable eyes, and sees no irritation, no contempt. There is only there is only warmth, and softness, and not a small bit of satisfaction. For a moment, a moment far too long, there is no movement and no sound, save for the mingled breaths of two people underneath the kotatsu. 

“Kyouya…”

One word, three repetitions, but this last is a drawn-out plea that threatens to repeat itself, over and over again, until Kyouya dips his head, this time to press his lips firmly against Tamaki’s own. Whatever else Tamaki might have said dies, lost in a sea of heat, pleasure, and completion.


End file.
